


Shelter

by Whreflections



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Chaotic Neutral Jon, Comfort/Angst, Distressed Dogs, Gray-Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, One Sided Conversation with the Ceaseless Watcher, References to Past Sex that could seem dub con but was not, Separation Anxiety, dog abuse, ptsd service dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: The Flesh and the Hunt started as animal fears, and bled to man, but when a wound gapes open, it bleeds where it will- and draws to light the reality that fears deemed primarily human aren't under our monopoly.Pack animals can be lonely, too.(or, in which Jon and Martin find a Shelter which is decidedly Not That, and they take a breather for Martin in one of the least comforting places he could imagine.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> ....I'm so sorry, guys. 
> 
> I kind of feel guilty coming at this fandom for the first time with this, but at the same time it all flowed so well once I had the idea that I'm super proud of it XD so um. If you're a dog lover, you'll probably cry a lot, fair warning. I cried the entire time I was writing this XD There is, of course, also Jon/Martin feels, too XD
> 
> I hope you um. en....joy?

The building has no windows. The place that they have come to is one without sunlight, or grass, or the hope of glimpsed strangers who might see the act of faith that is the wag of a tail at only a vague blur in the distance. Any hope that happens, here, comes from memory, or fleeting torments.

Jon cranes his neck, and sees the mocking title, emblazoned in bold black painted cinderblocks across the upper floors. 

**SHELTER**

Their pain and anxiety sits in Jon's gut like acid, and at the back of his mouth like thirst. There is so much to take in, here; such purity of horror and pain from creatures who feel at breakneck speed, because they know no other way. 

"Jon?" Martin's voice at his elbow is cautious, and careful— and stronger. Whether he'd wish to admit it or not, part of Martin already knows a bit of what this place is.

"Shelter," Jon murmurs. Touching the metal of the door, it feels ice cold, and still not entirely unpleasant, not for him. He swallows. "Ironic, isn't it? It is not that which it is—but though this place might carry a twist of the spiral, with the loss of time and weight of confusion, it doesn't belong to it. You can feel it, can't you? The aching loneliness of this place?"

"Is it—" Martin starts, but a howl louder than most cuts through, and he clutches at Jon's shirt instead. It is a cry of utter despair, made worse because no other call answers it. It lingers, a note of brilliant clarity that slowly fades. Martin's face presses into his shoulder, and Jon cups the back of his head without looking. 

So much of life is instinct. A dog or a man, there's but a hair between. 

"I don't want to go in, Jon. I don't think I can—God, it's horrible, isn't it? I mean, we've seen so much, but they're just so innocent, and I don't think I can—"

"They aren't being dragged off to the gas chambers, if that's what you're worried about. They aren't dying—many of them aren't even in any physical pain. They're just waiting." Jon tries, he does, but even for Martin he can't make it sound like mercy. "They wait, in hope and terror. Some of them know who they're waiting for—they learned to fear this place before they were found, and even in their safety the fear has never left them. For others, this or hell before it is all they know, really, but they understand the concept of pack, and safety, and they are born wanting to love us—did you know that before they're a month old, a domestic dog will already wag their tail for the hand of a stranger—"

"Jon, please." Martin sounds strangled, positively bound by pain. For that, Jon can always stop, if only for a moment. "I don't want to think about it, okay? Look, I know I haven't had a dog since you've known me, but that's just been timing. I—I really love them, and I don't want to see this. I don't. I'm so tired—" There, Martin stops himself before Jon can. The noise of his understanding hurts in a fresh way. Each of Martin's pains always do. "Fuck."

"Yes," Jon says. "You're tired, and in this place you can feel both that exhaustion and the remedy. This place doesn't feed on human fears, so you don't need to use your powers to rise above it. You can...exist in it, in a way you can't in a place that could hurt you. And, because it's a stronghold of the lonely, it can heal you. You might not be hurt physically, but it's been a long time since you rested. You can have that, here."

Martin's laughter is bitter. He lets go, and paces, and kicks at a wilted pansy. Jon knows his choice without trying, and lets him have his resistance anyway. 

"Rest. In a building with thousands of the most innocent things alive screaming for comfort. D'you know how fucked up that is? What, I'm supposed to just go in and lay down? Don't mind the panicked shrieking, Martin, just suck the poor little things dry like a juice box and carry on?"

"What do you want me to say? Yes? That I care more about your sleep and rest than the source? Believe me; I hate this place as much as you— I can feel _all_ of it, and I won't be able to turn that off while you sleep— but you need it, and taking from them won't do them any more harm. We should both be ready for London by the time we reach it—and taking this path, bringing us here, that gives us the best chance of _both_ of us moving forward with more of what we need."

The perpetual war is on Martin’s face; in his eyes. The soft jade green of them never looks that hard at _him_ , but Jon can catch here and there a glint of what others have seen, sharp and keen as a blade. A hint of it flickers as he rubs his mouth, and fades. His hand rubs higher, beneath his glasses, knocking them uneven. Jon's fingers itch to fix them, and still he waits. 

"Yeah, go on, then. Find me a bedroom." 

He says it like poison, like it's an electric chair. Jon reaches over, and straightens his glasses, thumb lingering as he tucks a strand of unruly red hair back into place. 

"As you wish." It could be sarcastic so easily; it could, and it isn't. It doesn't matter who else might hear the truth; it's only the two of them. Most importantly of all, for half a second, Martin almost smiles.

In the moment it takes for Jon to wrench the metal door open with a screech, the softness that only he has earned is back in Martin's eyes, mellowing even the sudden cacophony of echoing, yodeling screams. 

\------------

On the second floor, the creeping, crawling burn of need is far too strong to resist. Jon tries to send Martin away, at first, but his hand digs into Jon's arm, and the firm shake of his head is clear. 

No, he can't leave for this one— or he won't, or his motives are too tangled to interpret. Does he feel he must bear witness? Is it guilt, or love for these creatures? Is it the part of him that wants to feed?

All are likely. Jon forces himself to stop considering, stop _theorizing_ , before the part of himself that craves certainty foams too much at the mouth to be held back. 

He turns to the dog behind glass to his left instead. The card on his door is old typeface, the letters uneven. 

**Colossus**

**Cane Corso mix**

**A Disappointment**

The tape recorder clicks. Jon lets his body relax, and the glass take his weight, and begins. 

_This is all a mistake._

_He knows it is; it has to be. He doesn't live at places like this anymore—he couldn't even if he wanted to, and he absolutely doesn't. Mum **needs** him. _

_She tells him so all the time—he knew it even before he met her, when Charlie pulled him out of a room that looked almost like this one and told him he was going to be so very good for someone who needed him. He could not, then, imagine what it was to be needed, other than that he wanted it very much, with a desperation that pushed him and pushed him to learn._

_He would not be needed if he was bad; so he had to learn— when to put pressure on Charlie's chest just so, when to lean into his thigh instead. He learned about fetching and carrying and redirecting, how when Charlie's breath changed too quick he should make him notice. He learned to put his face in Charlie's hand when he smelled sad—that learning was, perhaps, his favorite of all, because the first time he did it, Charlie beamed and told him he was perfect._

_Charlie was good, but he wasn't like mum. No one was like mum._

_She smelled like sunshine._

_The day they met, she threw her arms around his neck and, when he pressed his nose against her skin she was so close he felt her laughing before he heard it. His tail had never wagged so hard that it hurt; not until then._

_She called him Colossus; she called him her favorite. She would lay beside him in bed and point to splashes of color in little squares in dozens of floppy volumes he wasn't allowed to touch with his teeth, and tell him that it was him. He didn't understand, of course, but he didn't have to—whatever it was, there, it made mum happy—and she had made him part of this happy thing, because he made her happy, too. That was good enough._

_In the middle of the night, sometimes, he would smell the wrongness before he heard her breath change. The sunshine scent of her would curdle, and he would lay himself across her chest and nudge and nudge at her neck and shoulder and cheek until she came awake sobbing, and buried her face in his shoulder._

_She would tell him, then, about the cars, and the guns, and the bombs, and how she could still hear their engines, the crackle of fire of every kind. He did not understand, but yet, he felt, sometimes, that he did. Cars were loud, and big, and clearly, they could be dangerous; they'd hurt his mum. With his head on her chest, he would try to tell her with his eyes that he would never, ever let them near her again, these cars that had hurt her. If she saw them again, he would be there, and he would make them leave. He knew how._

_Whether she understood him or not he could never be sure, but she would smile for him, and kiss his whiskers. Her drying tears would wet them, and he wouldn't mind. She would tell him he was the best boy in the world._

_She would never lie, so this had to be a mistake—because he was a good dog, he was her good dog, and she needed him. Who was taking care of her, while he was here? Who was making sure she was safe? Who was watching when she got nervous during dinner and wanted his eyes on the door? Who would pull her out of the terrible dreams?_

_Unless..._

_Had something happened to her? Had the cars come back? Or was it worse than that? Did he— had he failed her, and he couldn't remember?_

_He couldn't remember coming here. What if he had forgotten that, too? What if he had been bad—what if mum was out there right now, alone and frightened, and he had left her, and come back to this place?_

_He had to get out. There was no other answer; he had to get out— it was his fault or it wasn't, but if he didn't find her now, something could happen to her, and then it really would be his fault._

_He stands up, and starts digging. The concrete is unyielding, but it doesn't matter; it doesn't matter. So what if he bleeds? He will still have his teeth, and he can protect her with those. First, he has to get out._

Blood flows freely from Colossus' feet, staining their white tips, and still he digs. He makes no progress. 

Jon's shoulder is wet. He knows without looking just how hard Martin is crying; it's in the hitch of his breath. The minute Jon turns, Martin folds in against him in a defiance of physics. It doesn't matter that he's bigger; it never has. Jon is his safety, his sanctuary, the place where he always fits. 

Jon looks away from the dog destroying his own limbs in a futile rescue attempt for the woman he loves more than life itself, and kisses Martin's hair.

There is enough balance left in him to hate how settled he feels. His eyes are burning, yes, but he has been fed. There's no pretending. 

"Would it help you to know that she didn't leave him? He wasn't at a shelter when this began. He was still doing his job."

"He's a service dog," Martin says, muffled against his chest.

"Yes. PTSD. Zara Hakeem is a decorated soldier. In 2006—"

"I don't want to hear, because she—she's in the slaughter now, isn't she?"

There's no point in nodding. Jon holds him tighter, and continues to watch her through the Eye in silence— to feel the vise of utter cold clamping like a leg trap around her ribs as she hides in the alley and watches the cars go by, knowing that at any moment, one of them will see her, or detonate, and it will all be over.

"She's stuck in her goddamn flashbacks, reliving whatever fucked up horror she went though over and over; it's his worst nightmare and hers, so his fear should be completely irrational, but it's actually happening—"

Martin's voice cracks, and Jon pulls his face in tighter, tucking it against the open collar of his shirt. 

"Yes, alright, alright. I know. It's too much; I know. No more for now. Let me find you a place to rest, sweetheart, okay?"

Like Jon knew it would, the endearment helps. He might not be good at much about this, but he is good with words. 

\------------

The sound of the nails never stop. 

Back and forth; across and around. Digging, down, and down, and down.

Cindy's ears are hurting. She scratches and scratches and scratches, until her foot is making a sound like a rabbit scenting danger, and there is blood running onto the concrete, and still she itches. 

Her boy would have never let this happen; she knows he wouldn't—so does that mean it isn't happening? Is it possible it's all in her head? Of course; it must be. It must be. She can smell the blood, but that, too, could be nothing— perhaps he fell on his bike again, like the day he didn't stop when she chased after him and called out, and he didn't understand and spun out of control. His knees had bled so much; she could still taste the salt and iron and dirt as she licked him clean, until he laughed and kissed her ears and told her she was good.

Of course; it must be like that. He's skimmed his knees again, and she's asleep with her nose pressed against the hollow of it—that's why the blood smells so close. It's a nightmare, this. In a minute, any minute, he'll hear her crying in her sleep, and he'll scratch her shoulders gently until she wakes up, and pull her against his chest and whisper _it's alright, girl; sometimes I have nightmares, too_. 

Any minute, and none of it will have happened—not the strange car ride with the strange, faceless people who didn't let her boy come, not the pain in her ears or this place with the howling and the brightness and—

Jon knocks his head back against the wall, hard enough to jar his teeth shut on his tongue. He has to try his best to stop seeing, to stop _listening_ at the least. He's already given one statement in this place; he's already made Martin cry. He'll be damned if he'll do it again, no matter the fire in his throat. 

Sensing something, perhaps, Martin stirs against his thigh, but he's easy to soothe— all it takes is a hand at the nape of his neck, and the softest whisper. 

"Hush, Martin. I'm here." 

Why that should comfort him, only the Eye might know. Jon could, of course, if he looked— but he promised, and so he doesn't. He holds onto his confusion like a sword in his beloved's defense, and settles them both with a slow rub against his vulnerable spine. Even avatars seem fragile to him, now. He can see how they all might come apart, like pulled thread. He can see Martin's seams, even when he doesn't want to. 

His throat clicks as he swallows, out of tempo with the endless nails, added percussion behind a thousand bewildered and warbling cries. 

"Ceaseless Watcher," Jon murmurs, and feels the power dance across his skin like the pouring of sunlight. "Look inside your servant and feast on the fear that claws at every inch of my soul when I look at this man." His hand squeezes, just slightly. Martin sighs, and the ache in Jon's chest is like the weight of a mountain. "Do you see what it would do, to take him from me now? Do you see that it would destroy us? That you must me allow me anything—anything to give him paradise, or you and I will both lose everything?"

For half a second, a blip in time, there’s a wisp of something from the Eye that might be understanding. Vague, and distant, like a haze squinted at on the horizon. 

“Look at him, this perfect creation—able to fear, and brave enough to walk into the depths of his own with his eyes open. See in him what I see—use my eyes for this. Understand how much I love him, because whatever it is you want, if it is in conflict with maintaining this single life—”

Jon’s head tilts, towards the ceiling, and the sky, and the endless eyes that seem him through the concrete. They could see him anywhere. 

“See inside me, and understand that on this, my will is greater than yours. I want you to have no doubts; no illusions. Remember that with a mirror, an eye can be made to turn its gaze on itself. If I have to, I can end you, too.”

The growl and scratch in his voice is fierce, and honest, but honesty and truth are not always the same. The Archivist knows this, and still, there is no room in his head or his heart for doubt. His love for Martin is there beneath his own chest, pulsing like a wound, though this ache is one he welcomes. 

Of all that has marked him, it’s this scar he treasures best. 

\------------

After sleeping for two days, he expects Martin to want food that they do not have. 

Instead, he finds himself beneath his lover, held close by the comfortable weight of him, adored by the depth of his kisses. There is a buzz of connection to it that shakes Jon down to his bones. 

There is utter worship in the press of Martin’s mouth to the hollow of his throat, and Jon wishes not for the first time that he could remember the mansion, and real sunlight, and he and Martin making love in a bed with clean, white sheets. 

As he’s reminded Martin a half dozen times, he doesn’t regret it, doesn’t doubt that whatever decision they came to was mutual, that his lack of a drive in that direction does not mean he has no desire to partake with Martin in particular, and him alone. He _doesn’t_ regret it, but he does regret that it is a flavor of intimacy with the man he loves that he may never know. 

Their singular chance came and went in the middle of the end of the world, and they seized it. Knowing that for a time he carried the knowledge of such utter closeness with Martin will have to be enough, for another oasis would be far too much to hope for.

He might pray to and threaten the Eye in equal measure in his moments alone, but much like honesty and truth, faith is not, necessarily, belief. He is not likely to survive. There will be no lazy Sundays for them, with a duvet spilling onto the floor and Martin’s tea going cold on the nightstand. Those indulgences are for other men.

When the enthusiasm of his _good morning_ kisses begins to fade, Jon takes his face in his hands, the contrast in his soft brown stronger with Martin’s near fluorescent paleness under the horrible, glaring lights. He kisses around the points where the tips of his fingers touch—up his cheek and to his temple, against his crown, down to his forehead. 

“There is a dog here who was Battersea before the world fell apart,” Jon murmurs. “His name is Praline. He was nearly beaten to death for sport before he was rescued, and still he has hope that someone will come and take him to run in the park. He’s seen other dogs in the park. If everything wasn’t what it is—”

“Jon—” It’s a warning, or beseeching. It’s both. 

“I would say that we should go and get him. We could both use a better outlet for our nerves, and a dog would get us out. Might even make us leave work on time.”

For all the statements he’s made Martin see with such bold conviction, he holds this fantasy up for him like a cage of candy floss. It’ll fall apart in a strong wind, but it’s sweet, and soft, and everything that he would give to Martin if the world truly was within the palm of his hand. 

Martin turns his head gently, the barest nuzzle against his cheek that still sends a roll of warmth down Jon’s spine, like a gulp of coffee. 

“I’d like that,” Martin says. “I really would.”


End file.
